


Bound

by thedevilchicken



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Light Bondage, Magic, Post-Canon, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-15 14:53:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13615704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Sarah finds an old book that shows her how to do something very ill-advised.





	Bound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [l_cloudy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_cloudy/gifts).



Jareth is watching her. 

She can feel his eyes on her, but not his hands; when she summoned him, she bound his wrists with iron while he was still disoriented from the jump. It's to take away his power, so all that he can do is watch. 

He watches her from the chair across the room, in the moonlight from the window, his eyes lit up bright and sharp. He watches her as if this was all his choice and never hers. 

He watches her as if this is the first time she's summoned him. It's not even close. 

-

The first time was eight months ago. 

She'd found a book in the quiet back room of her local used book store, a volume with a leather binding so aged bits that crumbled off of it when she took it from the shelf. The owner had scrawled _$3_ inside the front cover in awful, smudged black ballpoint that made her cringe when she looked at it, but all the books she'd ever bought from there that littered her room had a similar mark. It wasn't the cheap second-hand copy of _Frankenstein_ she'd been hoping to pick up for her class on Gothic lit, but she bought it anyway and read it that night, in her bed in her room. She tried to put it down, more than once, but she couldn't. 

The first time was three nights later, since that was the night of the full moon and the book clearly said the most effective rituals were conducted by the fullest moonlight. So she summoned him just like the book said she could, in the double-occupancy dorm room she's had to herself since her roommate unceremoniously quit and went back to Wisconsin. She was surprised that it worked but not so surprised that she faltered; she'd told herself she'd probably think all her careful prep was dumb when the book turned out to be poorly-written fiction, but she'd done it anyway. The book said the fae were dangerous; she knew they were, so she was ready. 

He didn't say a word when he looked at her, when his eyes could finally focus on her after the shock of his arrival. He just sat down heavily in the chair she kept by the open window - the chilly fall breeze from the woods outside and a sickly-looking African violet on the sill that she'd rescued from her ex-roommate's trash were the closest to nature that she'd dared to get - and he _looked_ at her. So she looked at him, too, at his weird hair and his weird clothes and his weird eyes, all exactly the same as back inside the labyrinth, all that time before. He didn't say a word, so neither did she.

She'd dreamed about him, and he'd looked just like that. Sometimes, she still has those dreams. Sometimes she dreams she never left that place and around every corner is the labyrinth, disguised. Sometimes, she dreams the games he played with her back then have never really ended. 

She looked at him, startled by how incongruous he seemed just sitting there in her college dorm next to the rescued plant and a stack of books she was reading her way through for class. She looked at him, startled by the fact she'd even wanted to have him there to begin with. Then she blew out the candle that sat on her nightstand and in a flash, he was gone again. The iron chains she'd bound him with hit the floor with a pronounced clank. When she sat back down, her hands were still shaking; she wasn't sure if that was more from the excitement of seeing him or the terror of what it was she'd done. 

She did it again a month later and he sat there again, in the chair by her window, and he didn't say a word. She sat herself down on the edge of her bed and she wondered why exactly it was that she'd done it, what it was she'd hoped to gain - she wasn't sure but there he was despite that, bound up in iron, coming to her when she called. She wondered if the iron stopped him talking, too, but nothing she'd read breathed a word of that. She guessed he just had nothing to say, at least not to her. 

But then there he was, sitting in her chair, on top of the sweater she hadn't meant to leave in it, with his legs crossed neatly at the knee. There he was, watching her, calmly, almost like he belonged amongst the books and papers, and her pulse raced in her veins. He had no power over her, she told herself. He couldn't hurt her. He couldn't even _touch_ her, so perhaps that was why she did what she did. Perhaps she did what she did to prove the choices she'd made were all her own, and never his. 

She stood, and his eyes followed her. She stepped toward him, and he watched her move. She brushed back his hair with her unsteady hands, brushed his cheeks with her fingertips, felt his warmth. He didn't even try to move an inch. He would have let her do whatever she wanted to do, perhaps because he didn't have a choice, and there were suddenly so many things she wanted - or at least she might have if she'd only let herself. But she turned and she blew out the candle. She didn't have the nerve to follow through. 

The third time, she had a plan. She didn't touch him - once he'd arrived and she'd bound his wrists up tight, she sat on the edge of her bed for a moment while she steeled herself, and then she stood. She slipped the straps of her nightdress from her shoulders, let it fall away to the floor at her feet, and she stood there, a blush in her cheeks, telling herself she wasn't embarrassed, not one bit, no, not even a little. She let the chilly breeze from the window bring her nipples up to peaks and raise goosebumps on her skin, or at least she told herself that was the reason why. She watched him watch her, his eyes a little wider with it, darker, hotter. She liked the way he looked.

When she blew out the candle, when she settled naked into bed and slipped one hand between her thighs beneath the sheets, she could still feel his eyes on her. She pretended she could feel his hands instead. 

The fourth time, she sat herself down on the edge of her bed and she spread her thighs out wide so he could see her; she touched herself while he watched her do it, and maybe the fact that he was powerless in front of her was what made it feel so good. Or maybe it was just the way his eyes felt on her skin, or the way his cock stiffened up so quickly there inside his clothes. Or maybe watching him want her just made her want him more. 

The fifth time, she ran her fingers through his hair, she ran her fingers down his throat, she pressed her palm to the front of his pants and made him take a breath in sharply. Sometimes he almost hadn't seemed quite real before, but he did right then; when she sat down on the bed and spread her legs in front of him, it was better because she was sure beyond doubt that he was really there. It was better because she was sure that he was really real. 

The sixth time, she sat in his lap with her head on his shoulder as her fingers walked between her thighs. The seventh time, she rubbed him over the fabric of his pants as she touched herself, listening to the hitching of his breath, feeling the warmth of his skin. 

And now, tonight, he's here again. 

-

"You cut your hair," he says, conversationally, jarringly, like he hasn't thus far kept a complete silence. 

Her hand goes up to touch her hair on reflex, the wavy bob all the way up around her ears. She's twenty-one years old now and she thought the style would make her look more mature, or maybe make her feel that way, but it just makes her feel self-conscious. Of course he knows that she regrets it. Of course he knows.

"Is that all you have to say to me?" she asks, surprised her voice is steady. 

He jangles the iron chains that she's slipped around his wrists again. 

"If you take these off me, I can make it grow again," he says. 

"If I take those off you, you'll just disappear."

He raises his brows. He tuts in disappointment. He shakes his head. 

"I thought you knew me better than that, Sarah."

"I think I don't know you at all."

"You know me," he says, like it's a promise, like a certainty. "Has my book told you otherwise?"

He smiles. She scowls. She should have known that the book was just too good to be true.

She knows she should blow out the candle and send him away back to the Goblin City. She _knows_ she should, but maybe she's not grown up as much as she likes to think she has. She's older now than she was when they first met and she'd like to think she's also wiser, except judging by the things she's done...she knows that's probably not true. 

She's no wiser than she was the day they met, but she _does_ know that he has no power over her. He has no power over her, and that fact doesn't only come from iron chains around his wrists. The fae are dangerous, the book says, but she knows that he can't hurt her. She is every bit his equal.

She takes off the chains from around his wrists, and he smiles, and he stands. And when he pushes her down on her neatly-made bed, he's not acting out some kind of petty goblin vengeance for his long-ago defeat. When he frees his cock, he lets her look, he lets her touch, he lets her sate her curiosity, her fingertips teasing up and down its length. When his fingers part her lips and he pushes up inside her, when he moves in her, her legs cinched tight around his waist, it's because he knows she wants him to. He has her because she lets him have her. She lets him because she's old enough to know he can't deceive her, not unless she wants him to.

She gasps. He groans. She holds him tight. With his hair raked back by her fingers in the moonlight, he almost looks like he belongs. He almost looks human; she won't forget that he's not.

And the next time she summons him across the brink between their worlds, the way his book has taught her to, she thinks she won't use the iron chains to bind him. 

He's bound to her already.


End file.
